


Phantoms

by RueRambunctious



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bullying, Burnplay, Cannibalism, Childhood Trauma, Consensual Violence, Discussion of Abortion, Domestic Violence, Eyes, Fear, I'm sorry don't read chapter eleven if you're precious about eyes, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insomnia, Knifeplay, Loyalty, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Mutilation, Night Terrors, Parent/Child Incest, Past Child Abuse, Scarification, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Squick, Swearing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, Why Did I Write This?, strong relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 18,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8311093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: What do you do when a phantom has demons?Sebastian copes better than most with Jim's issues because he's faced them before. And if anyone can save Jim, it's her.Jim presses his lips together. “You want to let a human trafficker beat me.”Sebastian fixes him with a look. “Saying it like that makes it sound bad. And she was a covert torturer. She can beat you to an inch of your life a thousand times over without killing you, which takes more skill and experience than I've got.”





	1. Chapter 1

Sebastian used to hear his sister scream out in the night. She quickly learned to keep quiet, but he would crawl into her room to protect her every single night until his parents sent him to Eton.

Christabelle left the Moran household tender in age but not in spirit. She was never found.

But Sebastian knew what had become of her. Where all the bodies were buried. Especially her's.

He suspected his younger twin Severin knew as well, but it was never spoken of.

Christabelle was closer to Hell than any of them, and she taught Sebastian a great deal about demons and phantoms.

Jim Moriarty was a phantom with demons, and if Sebastian was scared, well, at least Christabelle had ensured the blond was partly prepared.

And Sebastian tried. He did. He knew so many tricks and he employed them to the best of his ability.

But when a demon is haunted, when a phantom has demons, well, you need a specialist.

Sebastian Moran was a specialist in taking life. For shadows and spectres and fractured minds… There was one person he knew for that.

“It's not enough, Tiger,” Jim had sobbed, beaten within an inch of his life and still clutching his brain like it needed shattered to let the swarming monsters out.

“I can't,” Sebastian had responded, broken in that confession. He couldn't take Jim any closer to death; loved too much to approach that line.

“I need...” Jim had broken off. But Sebastian knew. Knew what was needed. Knew what he just couldn't give.

“Jim?” Sebastian had said. “What if I know someone?”

Clever Jim knew a gamechanger when he heard it: that silence in the way Sebastian bit his lip which spoke in ways Jim could always hear.

“I'm listening, Bastian.”

Blood running out his ear, but he was listening. Probably couldn't even hear, but he kept his voice regulated all the same. Like he wasn't in excessive pain.

“If… I was there, to judge when it stopped, would… would you want to meet someone who could hurt you more than I can? Someone… who'd understand?” Sebastian asked.

“Who would ever possibly understand?” Jim had asked starkly.

Sebastian had swallowed. “How… far did you look into look into my sister?”

Jim blinked. Calculating. He immediately understood that Sebastian wasn't talking of the living sister, Augusta. Christabelle Moran had disappeared, and her parents had done a messy job of hiding her existence.

Jim hadn't been interested at the time. Sebastian hadn't even been in the army by then. Was barely enrolled in Oxford. Jim had no need to look so far back into Sebastian's skeletons.

Or Jim hadn't thought so, anyway.

“Is she dead?” Jim asks.

“I'm not certain she was ever living,” Sebastian said, “but she has certain skills.”

“Skills,” Jim repeated.

Sebastian chewed his lip again. “I might be the strongest Moran, but she's the most dangerous.”

Jim sat up at that.


	2. Chapter 2

Christabelle Moran was the most fascinating actress Sebastian had ever observed.

When observed (and often even not) by anyone other than her brother, Christabelle could appear in every sense to be the pious, emotionally detached, perfectly preened debutante expected of her linage.

Her cracks were savage and deep, leading down to depths not even dreamt of by the ordinary person, but she covered them impeccably. 

From Christabelle's duplicity Sebastian learned to read people and pay attention in ways the general population did not. Christabelle's talent could be considered a gift, but Sebastian felt the real gift was in her sharing it with him. She taught him to see the world and its live inhabitants with the clarity of a precision tool. It had helped him more in battle (and out of it) than any expensive scope.

It was the demons he could not see so well.

Christabelle would let a little of her mask fall when they were alone. A twitch of her ears, a faltered step or a stiffening of limbs let Sebastian know that she could hear them. She would continue walking purposefully through the corridor or grounds in a manner that would never alert the untrained eye, but Sebastian would know that should he reach out and take his sister's wrist her pulse would have elevated, skipping hard under his touch.

Things visited in the night. Sebastian would wake beside Christabelle to find her frozen and wide-eyed, paralysed in fear from whatever stalked her room and crawled upon her bed. What scared Sebastian more was when she fought control over enough of her body that he could see her move under the weight of something invisible. A cringe against something at her neck. A tightening of her abdominals as something heavy took occupancy of her lap.

Sometimes she wasn't afraid. Sebastian had a mildly horrified fascination for the times when his sister would reach out to curl herself around presences he could not see. There were times when it was discrete: hand-holding with air, the sight subtly obscured by a bent knee or turned back. Other times Sebastian saw Christabelle rise from her sleep, not entirely conscious, and embrace nothing with expressions that made his skin creep.

It chilled and burned his blood when something pulled Christabelle out of slumber to kiss her. It didn't tend to look gentle, but when she came back to herself, to her mask, she would seem distracted for days. Dazed. Lovesick in a way no breathing suitor had ever achieved.

Sebastian knew his sister hated the real world. It seemed to lie to her, to tell her that her experiences were false and could not exist. It made her doubt herself until her skin crawled and her nails raked over it and bloody concertinas of flesh folded up against her fingerbeds.

Sebastian would press his forehead to Christabelle's, careful of how she twitched in agony under her long, necessarily dark, sleeves, and would repeat over and over that she was not crazy. Until his mouth was dry and his saliva glue.

“Et si elle est folie à deux?”

“Then I'll follow you to hell,” Sebastian would declare with certainty, fierce love in devotion in his gaze, his voice, his touch.

She loved him the way a severed artery loved a tourniquet. 

They took him away from her, and when Sebastian returned older and bitter, Christabelle was long gone.

Only… not exactly.

Sebastian guarded his sister's secrets with careful devotion, and hid so well in the real world that his youth as her disciple drifted from his conscious mind. There wasn't much time to watch for moving shadows in war zones.

Sebastian felt a sharp spark of recognition the first time he saw Jim Moriarty.

The more Sebastian saw Jim the more he saw the tells. Death, decay, trauma and enchantment shrouded Jim, straining his jaw and flinching his nerves.

Sebastian understood. He observed, and Christabelle had taught him how to attend to the malady. How to coax the whispers; how to spread his shoulders against the empty air.

Jim took Sebastian to bed, reluctantly at first, and then insistently, because Sebastian knew. Knew Jim wasn't imagining the things that made the brunet sit bolt upright in the bed panting and wide-eyed in sheer terror.

Sebastian understood Jim's relationship with pain too. Knew that the voices, the silences, the _pressure_ needed to spill out somehow for relief.

And Jim had spit broken teeth and Sebastian had saw the flinch that said Jim _still_ heard those whispers.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim liked puzzles. Learning things kept the buzzing pressure in his head at manageable levels, some of the time.

The cover up is intriguing.

Christabelle Moran has been declared legally dead, but there is not autopsy record. No funeral, no wake, no grave, no urn.

Just a death certificate signed by a man already dead, with no clear history of forgery in his past.

Jim digs back a little further. Ah yes. Mental health issues.

And strangely, here is Sebastian's name alongside his sister's. Shared delusions. Interesting that information should be missing from Sebastian's own record. It could have hindered the blond's rank progression in the army.

More importantly, Jim didn't notice that this information had been hidden when he first studied Sebastian.

Jim goes back to Christabelle's trail. It is a mess. Someone (or a number of someones, judging from the chaos) has done their best to hide Christabelle's interactions with various mental health services over the years.

The notes are sparse. The young woman is close-lipped about her maladies, but the early accounts leave no doubt she is considered 'disturbed'. The later accounts seem more like Christabelle has become better at hiding it rather than being 'cured'.

Poor little rich white girl can't express her demons.

And yet…

And yet the look on Sebastian's face as he informed Jim that Christabelle is the most dangerous Moran is conclusive proof to Jim that there is a lot more than these meagre records show.

Jim stills. The roaring in his head is back again. It makes it hard to hear for a moment, even though he isn't actually listening to anything, and then it slowly recedes to an echo. It leaves a pressure between Jim's ears that makes his skin crawl.

Jim does his best to wriggle his ear drums whilst rubbing his tired eyes and returning his gaze to the puzzle.

There's not enough information. Not from these sources.

Jim tracks down a list of Christabelle's classmates and hunts around for dormant Myspace profiles.

And now he has friend lists. Photographs. Biographies. Even some conversations remain.

Jim studies the pictures. Christabelle is grace and poise, not merely a perfect debutante but a caricature. Her eyes are lit behind her smiles, not the dead expression of the ordinary faker, but she is not experiencing genuine mirth.

Jim can tell.

Wait. A video.

Sitting in the dim light, Jim is bleached and ghostly by the glow of the monitor as he squashes the urge to kill whoever is responsible for the deplorable footage. He instead focuses on tracking this frozen version of Christabelle. 

There!

There. Jim pulls the video back and replays those seconds.

Microexpressions strong enough to get caught on the frames. Then she's looking at something that isn't there.

Then she's lifting her beautiful visage to the camera and smiling fakely. Although no one present in that moment recognises it.

Jim pulls back time again. Freezes it on Christabelle staring into space.

He moves the frames back a little. Forward a little.

He's seen those hidden expressions before.

On his own face. Christabelle's like him.

Jim sets about taking dimensions of her face and using scraps of code he has written before, builds a program to search for her image across the internet. He expects it to take all night, most likely longer.

Only it takes no time at all, the first hit bringing back the page of someone Jim already knows.

Has already worked with.

Someone _Sebastian_ has already worked with.

Strange bedfellows, Jim supposes.


	4. Chapter 4

Christabelle spits blood and pauses to grip the body before her.

“Give me a minute,” the small Scot says in a drifting voice.

Christabelle smirks, holding up the bloodied frame. “Wear your headgear, you idiot.”

Her companion's features scowl around unfocused eyes. “Fuck that. Ruins my vision.”

“And concussion doesn't?” Christabelle grins.

“Oh shut up,” is the grumbled response. A considered pause. “I think I'm going to need you to put me on the floor for a bit. Sleep.”

Christabelle licks the garnet stream from the little Scot's skull. “I can't let you sleep when I've concussed you, Wings, you know that.”

Wings presses her eyes closed in displeasure. She puts a wobbling hand up to her own face, finding her mouth after a moment and fumbling out her wet mouthguard. She swallows slowly. 

“Gonna have to hurt me sharply then, because I stopped seeing in colour a while ago.”

“How black's your vision?” Christabelle asks.

“Like switching off an old TV set. Prob'ly only got about-” Wings breaks off with a scream as Christabelle bites harshly into her neck. She pants as she tries to scrabble away from the agony, “Hurts, hurts, fucking hurts!”

Christabelle pulls away and smirks. “All your taste for knives and chains yet a bit of neck-biting's your threshold.”

“Fucking vampire,” Wings huffs, a whimper in her voice as she clamps a hand to burning throat.

“Did it help?” Christabelle asks smugly.

“No' the point,” Wings grumbles, her accent sharp with pain.

Christabelle slides a blade from her clothing and pushes the cold metal to the other side of the Scot's marked neck. “This cheer you up?”

Wings presses into the contact a little, her skin breaking at the pressure, and wraps her strong legs around Christabelle. The runaway Moran laughs as Wings flips them over, keeping the knife at her throat and giving Christabelle a cocky look.

“Never change,” Christabelle chuckles, reaching up to run her hand through Wings' short hair, half-matted with red stickiness.

Wings hisses as the blade bites a little deeper. “Depends how much you rattle my brains about.”

Christabelle opens her mouth to retort, but then notices how quickly the blood from the little Scot's skull is dripping down on top of her skin in hot blotches. Christabelle pulls back the knife and leans up on her elbows.

“Love, you're bleeding pretty heavily.”

Wings sighs and pulls off her thin teeshirt, bundling it into a ball and holding it to the blinding pain. She scrambles in her soft cargo-style pockets for a roll of masking tape and fumbles with slippery fingers to pull strips with her teeth.

Her head is too wet to make the tape stick.

“Bugger,” Wings mutters.

She pulls herself to her feet to go wash up and attend to her most demanding wound properly, with actual medical tape and perhaps glue, but then the colour drains from her face and she falls to the floor.

“Ouch,” she mutters. She meets Christabelle's eyes so the other woman doesn't worry and lightly says, “Whoops.”

Christabelle frowns.

Wings gives a small smile, blinking awkwardly under the dripping blood and raising her tongue to catch some of the stream. “Relax, mate. I'm fine. I'll be fine.”

Christabelle presses her lips together, but before she can comment, her companion has crumpled to the floor. “Oh for fuck's sake, Shortarse, not again...”


	5. Chapter 5

“Baaaaastiannnnn.”

Sebastian sighs, because whenever Jim's got that sing-song lilt to his voice it doesn't bode well. “What are you plotting now, you little fucker?”

Jim smiles. “Well that's just rude, lover.”

Lover. Well fuck, Sebastian was definitely in trouble. “Um. Sorry Boss?”

Jim hums, eyebrows raised as he observes his nervous second. “I think you've been a bad boy, haven't you, Sebastiannnn?”

Sebastian swallows. “Have I?” What had he done now?

Jim crosses his arms, his voice abruptly cooler. “You've been keeping secrets from me. _Bad dog_ , Bastian.”

Sebastian raises his brows in an expression of innocence and confusion. “You've lost me, Boss. What-”

Jim makes a hiss of displeasure. “Come here,” he growls.

There's nothing playful in Jim's gaze and Sebastian feels a small block of icy fear in his stomach. He obeys instantly.

“Close your eyes and give me your left hand, sweetheart,” Jim orders.

Fuck. Sebastian does so, quivering inwardly as the tiny, mad brunet grips Sebastian's large, calloused, defenseless hand.

Swish.

 _Sting_.

Sebastian knows better than to open his eyes. It's not terribly painful, but it's embarrassing, and uncomfortable, and he has to concentrate on not squirming or pulling away from the physically weaker man.

Swish.

Sebastian bites his lip.

Jim carefully rubs the sting from Sebastian's wrist, then drags his short nails over the redness. “What is this, Sebastian?”

A whim? “Punishment?” Sebastian guesses.

The blond can sense the smile that spreads across Jim's face. “Now my sweet, if I was deeply cross with you, _you'd know_.”

“Pain?” Sebastian suggests.

“Clever Tiger,” Jim praises. “What kind of pain?”

Sebastian doesn't want to answer. Feels like walking into a trap. “The kind that doesn't mutilate?” he hazards.

Jim hums and trails something against Sebastian's neck. Riding crop. Oh no.

Jim chortles darkly. “Ah, pieced it together have you, my naughty Sebastian?”

Sebastian lets himself squirm then, eyes still obediently closed. “I wasn't specifically keeping it secret it just didn't seem relevant at the time,” he protests.

OW! _Fuck_.

Jim has swung the crop at Sebastian's throat, not hard enough to snap the blond's neck, but enough to bloody fucking _hurt_.

Sebastian splutters for a bit but retains the presence of mind not to reach up and soothe the abused flesh.

“Who determines the relevance of information, Sebastian Moran?”

“You,” Sebastian says carefully.

“Kneel down,” Jim orders.

Sebastian obeys, uncertain whether to be fearful or relieved as he hears Jim lean closer.

Jim presses his lips to the raw skin. “Isn't it in your best interest to be a good boy, Sebastian?” he murmurs.

“Yes sir,” Sebastian responds.

“Open your eyes,” Jim growls.

Sebastian does so, blinking as he adjust to the light and not feeling particularly eager to meet Jim's stern gaze.

“I love you very much Bastian, but I _do not_ like it when you keep things from me,” Jim scolds.

Sebastian lowers his gaze. “Sorry.”

Jim hums in annoyance. “Well yes, you will be, if you ever do it again.” He kisses Sebastian's brow bone. “Now, are you going to explain to me why I found a picture of your sister pulling Irene's hair?” 

Sebastian bites his lip, wondering how best to word things. “Christabelle got involved in a few… circles that Adler mixed in.”

“Such as?” Jim growls.

“Bit of sex work, films, that sort of thing,” Sebastian says carefully.

Jim tugs blond hair. “What did you just omit?”

Sebastian takes a breath. “From what I've heard… She took control of a human trafficking ring. Or six. I didn't ask.”

Jim blinks. “Your sister dismantled six trafficking rings?”

“Did I say dismantled?” Sebastian says in a clear, quiet voice.

Jim lets go of Sebastian's hair. “We don't even touch that shit.”

“Yes, well, apparently my sister did,” Sebastian mumbles. “Although I don't know if that's still what pays her bills. She's a lot more careful about keeping things quiet these days.”

Jim rubs his face. “Your sister's a criminal of considerable clout and I didn't even know.”

“Well she hardly works under her real name anymore, you know?” Sebastian responds. “And it's not exactly something I want to open my mouth about.”

Jim presses his lips together. “You want to let a human trafficker beat me.”

Sebastian fixes him with a look. “Saying it like that makes it sound bad. And she was a covert torturer. She can beat you to an inch of your life a thousand times over without killing you, which takes more skill and experience than I've got.”

Jim steeples his fingers. “Your sister, who is legally dead, was a human trafficker and a torturer. And you didn't think to share that with me?”

“Hey, do I ask about your sister?” Sebastian protests mildly.

Jim curls his lip. “My sister steals paintings and fucks some ridiculous NYPD officer. Not really the same ballpark, is it?”

Sebastian breathes through his nose. “So do you want me to contact Christy's PA or what?”

Jim blinks. “You need to speak through her PA?”

“Christabelle's a ghost. It's a lot easier to track down her PA.”


	6. Chapter 6

As a child, Jim found mathematics soothing. There was a logic and focus with numbers that pulled his mind into a different frequency from the buzzing, bursting, noisy _tension_ that was otherwise present.

Jim did not like people. He especially did not like other children.

He liked maths, and quiet.

This did not do him a great many favours with other children. It especially did nothing to defend him from the ire of much bigger, typically stupider, far stronger boys.

Jim had a volatile temper and a quick tongue, but his fists were never as quick as theirs, and simply did not have the strength theirs did. Sneaking off somewhere quiet to do homework or puzzles carried the risk of being found and hurt.

Staying in the open also carried this risk.

Jim was well practised in being invisible, but when that failed, well… Jim already used to taking a beating too.

And beat Jim the other boys would. He was small, and clever, and unpopular, with an acerbic, superior attitude that was just asking to be knocked into the dirt and kicked in the teeth.

Jim would tell himself not to snivel, and most of the time he managed to keep his bruised and swollen cheeks dry of _tears_ at least.

Sometimes, some of the boys would take it too far, and they would succeed in making the little freak cry.

Sometimes one particular girl would run into the fray, chiding her peers, and twice or thrice getting a dislocated arm for it. Which she would play up, until the boys blanched and obeyed her, leaving Jim alone for a short time.

Jim could see why she did it: a burning intelligence behind her eyes that she worked so hard to hide. It was safer to be popular than fucking clever.

Sometimes the gang would hurt Jim so badly he wouldn't be able to drag himself back up afterwards. He'd lie in the dirt and often the rain and wait until his body was ready to take orders from his brilliant brain again.

Sometimes Kimberly would find Jim like that, and after a while it became clear it was from active looking. Burst knuckles in her friends group typically meant a game of beat the freak.

She'd try to clean Jim up and help him home, but most of the time he wasn't having any of that.

Most of the time. Jim was starved for human affection and whilst he didn't go in for the mixing with other humans willingly nonsense… Sometimes he took leave of his senses and let her take him home.

They might have been friends had Jim been able to forgive her for selling her potential for an easy life.

It was still nice to have someone who held him. It was better to have someone who taught him how to throw a proper punch and use self defense techniques which worked despite his girl-sized frame.

She wasn't mad at all the first time he burst her face, just gave him a strange grin he'd seen girls use on other boys and told him he'd have to kiss her better.

Jim wasn't sure about that, but… the time he spent with her was time not filled by getting his ass handed to him by neanderthals and… he might have liked the new element to their not-friendship.

He definitely liked when Kimberly silenced their whole gym hall when the boys had been sneeringly shoving Jim and calling him a virgin, only for Kim to announce, “He's not actually.” She'd looked the ringleader dead in the eye and said, “And his cock's a lot better than yours, _babe_.”

'Babe' and the other lads beat Jim fucking bloody for it afterwards, but it was worth it for the way the world just froze.

If Jim was truly honest with himself he didn't always mind the beatings. They were humiliating, sure, but he was used to that, and… when they hit him hard enough… the buzzing in Jim's head stopped. All he could concentrate on was the pain.

Kimberly left school, got married early, and was utterly fucking miserable for it.

Jim would swing by after class, and sometimes she'd choke him up against the wall in her gleaming, poor person's kitchen. Sometimes he'd drag her by the hair to her marital bed and make her solve equations before he'd touch her. 

Sometimes he'd limp in battered and she'd take such gentle care of him.

Jim didn't really understand why he wanted to kill Kimmy's husband when he discovered she'd been knocked around whilst pregnant.

When Kimberly decided she was going to have an abortion the next time around, in rural fucking Ireland, Jim went with her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And they might have been friends.

Kimmy died in fairly suspicious circumstances before Jim went off to Trinity.

Jim wasn't sure whether to be sorry, or to be annoyed he hadn't gotten there first. But at least it meant one person who knew his shameful secrets was gone.

Well, two. Carl Powers had been asking for it.

And pain and death _would_ come to the others by Jim's means.

But he burned Kimmy's violent drunk of a husband alive in his obnoxious car first, making it look like he'd wrapped his deserving self around a tree.


	7. Chapter 7

“And you're sure?” Sebastian asks seriously.

Jim sighs. “Just let's do it before I think better of it, will you?”

“I don't _want_ her to hurt you,” Sebastian grumbles.

“Rather do it yourself, would you?” 

“No,” Sebastian mutters. “Christ, Jim, if I go any rougher with you I think I'll kill you.”

“Well then, you had better contact your sister, hadn't you?” Jim snips, although his eyes are more nervous than his voice.

Sebastian presses a sloppy kiss to Jim's cheek then texts Christabelle's PA. 'Can we talk?'

The swift response is startling. It's about three in the morning over there, if she's still where Sebastian expects.

'I'm just attending to Her Majesty's inboxes. Skype me?'

Sebastian swallows, makes eye contact with Jim, then reaches for the laptop.

Jim presses his lips together at the silly logging on noise. It doesn't quite have the gravity for this situation.

Sebastian pulls up a window and immediately rethinks this bloody stupid idea.

“Jesus, Wings, you look like you were in a car smash,” Sebastian chokes. 

Christabelle's PA, nicknamed Wings for dubious reasons, rolls her eyes. One of which is vivid red where it ought be white. “She says I need to wear a helmet next time. Like fuck I am.”

Jim gives the battered looking PA an interested look, his insides squirming nervously.

Sebastian swallows. “I know you need a death wish to work with my sister, but Christ.”

Wings pouts, her fingers clacking away on the keyboard before her. “Do I question your life choices or comment on your questionable personal appearance? No, I don't, because I am polite.”

Sebastian bites his lip. “Sorry Wings, but… Christ. Fucking Christ you mad bitch.”

Wings purses her lips, fingers slowing a little. “Can you not? If your sister wakes up and hears you she might reassess how bad she wants to give it to me and then I'd have to kill you.”

Sebastian gives a small smile. “I thought you weren't allowed to kill people anymore?”

Wings huffs. “I'm perfectly capable, she's just… overprotective.”

“Tell that to your skull,” Sebastian mocks.

Wings' lips twitch and she glances to the side, clearly reading another correspondence. “Hardly the most stitches I've had at once, thank you for your concern.”

“You have zero self preservation instinct, how is that possible?” Sebastian mutters.

“You'd be surprised, sweetcheeks,” Wings hums cheerfully. She rests her swollen face in one hand and sends off an email with a flourish. “So what can I do for you, kiddo?”

Sebastian presses his lips together, because Jim isn't going to let that level of familiarity pass without mocking comment later. Never mind the fact Wings is in her twenties and Sebastian's nearing forty.

“I'm after a favour from my favourite big sister?” Sebastian says.

“Your favourite big sister is going to want to know why you and your spider want a favour,” Wings snorts, gazing to the side again as she deletes something unimportant.

Both men still.

Wings gives an exasperated sigh, turning to give them her full attention. “Of course I know who Jimbo over there is. Why do you assume I'm stupid? Of course we keep tabs on you.”

'Jimbo' presses his lips together in a white line, but he supposes discretion is necessary over a line of communication that could be hacked.

Sebastian glares coolly. “I thought I told you to keep off of the tab keeping?”

Wings waves a frail hand dismissively, exposing broken knuckles and raw flesh. “Yes; yes, I know… You're a big boy now. You think your sister's not going to worry when you're fucking the biggest criminal in England?”

Jim leans forward furiously. “Exactly how much are you watching?”

Wings makes a face. “Relax, I really don't want to know the intimacies of your dynamics. Although if you could leave fucking after hits until after you actually got home my poor eyes would appreciate it.”

Jim glares blackly.

Wings sighs and lowers her head to expose more of her most recent significant head injury. “If I can tail you both so easily with most of my grey matter dislodged you are really not trying hard enough not to be seen. And you're welcome, by the way, for us getting you both out alive from that fucking fiasco in April.”

Jim blinks.

“Uh huh,” Wings says pointedly. “So stop whining or step up your game. It's not like I don't have enough work to do clearing up Christy's messes.”

“Thanks for April,” Sebastian says heavily.

“You are most welcome Sebbykins,” Wings says charitably before turning back to her work. “Now do you want to actually tell me about this favour or did you merely want to see the faces I make when responding to idiotic emails from oil barons that your sister won't let me kill?”

“He's like her,” Sebastian announces. Jim stares at him silently, pushing his thigh closer to Sebastian's.

Wings turns around and leans on both elbows. “Yeah, I had my suspicions about that.”

Jim blinks, but Sebastian doesn't seem overly surprised.

“I need help keeping his mind quiet.”

Wings nods solemnly and draws her gaze over them both. Jim scowls, feeling embarrassed by the confession and the attention.

“I can surmise that you want to forgo me giving you a list of names and want to skip ahead to me scheduling a meeting with Christy?” Wings says.

“Please,” Sebastian says. Jim presses closer.

Wings nods. “Well this is going to be interesting.” She tilts her shattered skull. “When do you want to get on a plane?”

“When's the next one to where you are?” Sebastian asks.

“Tomorrow. Four in the morning, your time.”

“Yeah, book it,” Sebastian says tiredly.

Wings sweeps her hand over the keys for a few moments. “Yeah; done. I'll email you your schedules.”

Jim frowns. “How did you just..?”

Sebastian raises his brows and bites his lip.

“You… don't think I know your passport number?” Wings says slowly. “Well, numbers. I used my initiative on which to use. Some of your aliases wouldn't be allowed into the US, you know?” 

Jim gives Sebastian an incredulous look. “You give your sister's PA my fucking passport numbers?”

“Fucking idiot geniuses. Why am I surrounded by fucking idiot geniuses?” Wings mutters.

Sebastian grins a little. “You attract what you are, Wings,” he teases. He leans close to Jim's face. “No I did not need to give anyone your details, love.”

Jim pouts and whips around to glare at the laptop screen. “You-”

“Yes, _well done_ Oh Twinky One, I do keep very close attention on the lover of my boss' baby brother,” Wings drawls. “It pays my wages.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Jimmy, are you sure about this?”

Jim gives Sebastian a disgruntled look. “Hardly, but I don't see that I have much choice, do you?”

Sebastian brushes his thick finger's through the tense man's hair and Jim permits it. “I love you and I would do anything for you. If you don't think this will help we will figure out something that will.”

Jim looks up. “It's just… We don't exactly schedule ourselves in advance. When you hurt me I'm in the mood for it. I want it. This… It's different. It's different.”

Sebastian bends his neck to nuzzle the short brunet's face. “You don't want to do it then you don't do it. It's that simple love.”

“I'm not… afraid,” Jim says uncomfortably.

“Jimmy, you just have to give me a _look_ sometimes and I'm scared witless,” Sebastian says gently. “Fear of a beating is a perfectly reasonable response.”

“You're always witless,” Jim snarks mildly into Sebastian's chest.

Sebastian squeezes Jim's rear a little, feeling Jim's too fragile for a real smack, and moves them to the bed.

Jim climbs into Sebastian's lap instantly. Sebastian places a large hand reassuringly in the small of Jim's back.

“I don't like anyone but you touching me,” Jim grumbles softly.

“I won't make you if you don't want to. But if you do, well, think of her like a doctor or something. Someone paid to look after you,” Sebastian suggests.

“I pay you to look after me,” Jim pouts.

“You know it hasn't been about the money in a long time,” Sebastian says, trailing a warm hand up Jim's slim back.

Jim shivers but cracks a small smile. “You saying I should stop paying you?”

“My wages go to _our_ groceries, _our_ takeaways, ammunition for _your_ business and _presents for you_ , so I doubt that would be a useful arrangement,” Sebastian says dryly.

“Ammunition should be a business account,” Jim says.

Sebastian rolls his eyes and prods the brunet. “Is that all you took from that?”

“No, but I do like when you think you've surprised me because you've paid for something in cash,” Jim smirks.

Sebastian drags his blond scruff against Jim's face in punishment. “Brat,” he growls fondly.

“I will make you sleep on the floor Sebastian Moran,” Jim warns, rubbing at his reddened skin, but he twines his free hand in Sebastian's dark, cashmere pullover.

Sebastian kisses Jim lightly. “Anything you say, Boss.”

“You're damn right,” Jim grumbles. He clambers over Sebastian to retreat to the bathroom. Sebastian stretches, smiling at Jim's retreating form, and gets up to follow.

Jim gives him a smile from around his toothbrush. Sebastian steps close and holds the smaller frame, brushing soft kisses into Jim's neck.

Jim bends to spit. “Behave yourself,” he drawls, keeping his rear pressed into Sebastian.

The blond growls playfully and pushes Jim's hips into the sink, rubbing against the smaller man's expensive trousers.

Jim rolls his eyes as if he didn't start this and hands Sebastian his toothbrush.

Sebastian wraps his strong arms around Jim to load the bristles with toothpaste and keeps Jim pressed against his body as he brushes his own teeth.

Jim gives Sebastian a squeeze then leads back through to the bedroom to change into pajamas. The silk feels horrible when Jim's seeped through it, so Sebastian tackles the smaller man to the bed and tugs the bottoms back off.

Jim makes an indignant noise, kicking his pale feet as Sebastian slaps the exposed bum and pins Jim to the mattress for a kiss. “Bastian, you prat-”

Sebastian rolls Jim over, straddling the narrow hips so he can pull off his sweater and teeshirt in one go. “Keep up the name-calling and I might change my mind about blowing you, Kitten.”

Jim glares for a second then his jaw swings shut as he considers the ultimatum. “Fine,” he huffs.

“ _Please Sebastian_ ,” the blond prompts smugly.

Jim narrows his eyes but his voice is obedient as he responds.

“Good boy,” Sebastian grins, then he dips down to ensure Jim is in a good mood.

It is effective. Not so effective that Jim returns the favour without a grimace, but it's the thought that counts in any gift.

Sebastian strokes Jim's head. “Go brush your teeth again.”

Jim considers, then decides he'd much rather get extra snuggling time with his sniper than rid the disgusting taste from his mouth.

Sebastian gives Jim a knowing look as the small brunet cuddles in, but Jim pointedly ignores it.

Jim habitually finds it difficult to sleep on most nights, but Sebastian has made it a rule that they have to at least lie down and rest come bedtime. The brunet often complains, but they both know fine well that Jim enjoys the contact. They both do.

Sebastian is almost drifting to sleep when Jim stills stiffly against him.

Sebastian leans up and looks at Jim's face. “Hearing again?” 

Jim frowns and forces a small nod, his lips tight. “Yes. Dammit.” 

Sebastian runs a heavy, soothing hand over Jim's tortured skull. “Here, baby.”

Jim coories in even closer and screws his eyes closed. “Can- Can you sing over it, Bastian, please?”

Sebastian kisses Jim protectively. “Always. Your song choice or mine?”

“Anything Tiger. Just stay.”

“I'm never going anywhere,” Sebastian says firmly.

He sings.


	9. Chapter 9

“Oh, Irene, stop it darling.”

“I'm only saying that-”

“Stop it,” Christabelle repeats harshly.

Irene sighs. “There are easier ways to make a living,” she says stubbornly.

“It depends on one's definition of 'easy',” Christabelle says coolly.

Irene gives her a look. “You cannot tell me that you find this monstrousness _easy_.”

“Denying that I'm a monster is the bit I find difficult, _darling_.”

“You're not-”

“I trade in other people's flesh and the harming of it, regardless of consent. Misery is my booming business. What else would you call that?” Christabelle asks somewhat harshly. She doesn't have much need of her composed persona these days.

“Capitalism?” Irene says softly.

Christabelle makes a disparaging noise and rolls her eyes. “Just because you don't want to see monsters doesn't mean they're not there.”

“Oh, I see you, Christy, but I'm not certain that you see yourself as I do,” Irene responds.

“Trust me, sweets, you don't _want_ to truly see me,” Christabelle says tiredly.

“Oh of course, because not one of the moments I've shared with you was real,” Irene scoffs. “Not you making tea, not you walking out of scheduled aftercare, not you drunk and fucking a stranger, not you knocking my boss' teeth down his throat, not you sick with swollen glands, not you singing on my balcony as the sun rises...”

The woman does not bother to meet Irene's gaze. “There are such things beneath this surface dear that would make your heart stutter with fear.”

“I've seen you in the night,” Irene says softly. “I'm not afraid.”

“You should be!” Christabelle bellows. “The things I can do! Dear God in Heaven, the things I can _do_...”

Irene holds up her hands. “I torture with these. I also soothe. You don't have to drown yourself in darkness.”

“The darkness is home,” Christabelle says bleakly. “It's everything else that makes my skin crawl.”

“Trading in _people_ , Christy!”

Christabelle glances at the dark-haired dominatrix. “God, Irene, what makes you so sure I'm _human_?”

Irene crosses the room and pulls the criminal close. “You feel human.”

“To the touch maybe,” Christabelle sneers softly.

Irene places her face at Christabelle's neck. “You smell human,” she drawls, her breath hot on Chistabelle's skin.

Irene licks the chords of her friend's neck. “Taste human.”

Bites a little. “Sound human,” she whispers at Christabelle's reservedly pleased hiss.

Irene pulls back and admires the tick of Christabelle's neck and the vivid bite beside the vein. “Look human.”

“Superficial evidence,” Christabelle mutters, but she sounds softer. It pleases Irene.

“I like to hurt people,” Christabelle says abruptly.

Irene twitches her brows. “I am aware.”

Christabelle raises her gaze a little. “My father used to hurt us. Badly. You know that of course. ...I used to tell my brothers that made him a monster.”

“Consent,” Irene says.

Christabelle curls her lip. “You've seen how little I care for consent.”

“If you feel guilty about that, it's a start,” Irene suggests.

Christabelle shrugs as she crosses her arms. “I don't though, pet. Not really.”

Irene presses her lips together as she observes: a beautiful woman of high breeding with impeccable posture and irreparably scarred knuckles. Painfully loyal and even more painfully distant.

“Even if you don't feel so, there is more to you than this,” Irene states.

Christabelle gives a quiet, dark, little chuckle. “I think there was once, Irene, sweet. A long time ago.”

“Perhaps you should dig deep,” Irene says dryly.

Christabelle shakes her head, not quite sad but thinking that perhaps she ought be. “Corroded. Withered and gone, never to return. But death comes to us all in stages.”

"I think you're only dead on paper, dear," Irene points out.


	10. Chapter 10

Wings collects Jim and Sebastian, openly wearing a double holster and a disturbingly backless shirt with a ouija board print, exposing livid mutilations. 

Sebastian seems familiar with the shocking twin scars, but Jim notices that the blond's expression seems a fraction pitying as soon as Wings' isn't looking.

Jim stares at the brutal marks uneclipsed by bra straps and framed by the soft cotton drape of the cutaway shirt.

“She likes them on show,” Wings says by way of explanation, voice a little tight.

“Christabelle did that?” Jim asks.

Wings smiles darkly, unseen as she walks on in front. “Nope. But she likes to look.”

“Can… Might I touch?” Jim asks carefully.

Wings slows and turns around. “Go ahead,” she says, spreading out her shoulders to show the butchered skin to its most gruesome.

Sebastian watches with wary fascination as Jim steps forwards with his fingertips outstretched and traces them with interest over the scarring. Wings' flesh is warm under Jim's touch, her head upright as though the feel of his hot breath on the back of her slim neck doesn't bother her.

“Outstanding,” Jim murmurs.

Wings inclines her head softly. “Thanks.”

“Your own handiwork?” asks the brunet.

“Yup,” Wings admits carefully.

“Impressive,” Jim says.

“If you're into that sort of thing,” Wings says wryly. “Now if you've finished feeling me up..?”

Jim bares his teeth but is unembarrassed as he draws away. He throws Sebastian a wicked look. “Perhaps I should mark you up like that?”

“Fat fucking chance,” Sebastian snorts. He lugs the baggage towards the car Wings indicates.

“Takes a special sort of perseverance to hack down to the bone,” Wings says. “It's really not for everyone.”

“I have a lot of muscle there that I would rather not sever,” Sebastian grumbles.

“You tell him, kid,” Wings smiles.

Sebastian looks away crossly as he feels Jim flick him an amused expression.

Wings checks her phone as the men climb in to the car. She frowns and types back something irately. She swings into the car.

Her phone rings. Sighing Wings mutters, “Give me a minute, guys,” and answers the call. “Da?”

Jim listens with interest as Wings holds an exasperated conversation in Russian, using some rather interesting slang in her threats.

“Can't get the help?” Jim teases when Wings hangs up sharply.

She groans. “Can't _butcher_ the fucking help.”

“Delegation,” Sebastian says calmly.

Wings huffs. “It takes the fun out of it when someone else gets to do it. I want Dimmy to hear me eat his fucking eyes.”

Jim chokes.

Wings grins and holds out her hand. “Hi, I'm Wings, personal lackey of the scary lady you know of as Christabelle Moran, and once upon a time she let me eat my shitty colleagues' eyes instead of just stitching up my head a lot.”

“You know,” Sebastian says carefully, “if you actually waited long enough between hidings to heal up she might let you back on the ground.”

Wings glances at him. “I got this from sparring with her, thank you very much. And the only thing worse than not being allowed off leash recently is living without the constant risk of having my teeth knocked in.”

Jim touches his mouth. “I like having my teeth.”

Wings shrugs. “Christy pays my dental; I'm not too worried.” She looks out of the window. “Besides, she'll talk though your interests and limits before she goes at you.”

“What was on your list?” Jim asks. “Other than cannibalism.”

Wings grins distractedly. “I was a kid when I met Christy; she hadn't quite gotten so organised back then.”

Jim makes a face. “You're still practically a kid.”

“Thought you said you liked having your teeth, Kitten?” Wings bites.

Jim freezes then his face turns ugly. “HOW THE FUCK-”

“You know the answer to that,” Wings says. She knocks on the partition to signal the driver. “We're here,” she announces.

Jim gives her a death glare and Sebastian wisely keeps his mouth shut as Wings steps out of the moving vehicle and trots towards a large building. Sebastian covers Jim closely.

Wings looks more murderous than Jim as workers call out to her on the lower office floor.

Jim gives her a bewildered look every time someone says, “There's been a MURRdurrr...” to her in a Godawful accent. He's not much of a television watcher. 

Sebastian purses his lips.

“There fucking will be one of these days,” Wings growls under her breath.

She gets aggravated whenever anyone calls her 'Scotty'. 

Thankfully the banter seems to die out the higher they climb through the building, until all of the workers seem to give Wings worried little glances and skitter well away.

“We can take the lift from here,” Wings grunts. “The lower ones don't go to the top levels.”

“You're popular,” Jim mocks.

Wings breathes through her nose and sourly tells an amused Jim, “Christy says I can't kill everyone I want to, you remember me saying that, right?” 

Sebastian raises his brows at her. “You didn't try to fight her on it?” 

Wings snorts darkly. “I'm getting old, Seb. Don't heal the way I used to, and if I'm not already brain damaged it's only a matter of time. Need to learn to pick my battles. Or so I'm told.” 

Sebastian curls his lip. “How's that lesson going for you?” 

Wings steps inside the elevator and lifts her clothing to bare the mottled black bruising on her stomach to both men. “It's going slowly, and I'd throw away her damn stilettos if I wasn't afraid of what the punishment would be.” 

Jim eyes her curiously, the 'Kitten' comment disregarded for the meantime. Sebastian gives him a stern look. “I like your organs unpunctured, Jimmy.” 

“Think I don't?” Wings chuckles darkly, dropping her hem. 

“Then why let her do it?” Jim asks, wrinkling his nose. 

Wings winks and gives a slow twirl so he can take in her bruised neck and arms, burst knuckles, battered mouth, stitched forehead, and mutilated shoulder blades. “Self-destructive streak a mile wide; or hadn't you noticed?”

Jim presses his lips together. “And you trust her?”

“With far more important things than my life,” Wings answers, stabbing a button for the top floor.


	11. Chapter 11

Wings takes a shuddering breath, feeling sick and shot full of adrenaline as she stares at the large man at her feet. Not moving. Blood seeping through his eyes.

Who thought ramming her keys in there would actually work?

Fuck. They'll be able to track the pattern of her keys.

...Unless she takes his eyes out?

Wings feels utterly revolted and miserable as she skirts around the body and wonders how to pluck it out. Could she just pry it with the keys like a skewer?

Sheer fright rips through Wings as something pins her face against the wall, a heavy pressure on her barely healed shoulder blades.

“Oh you are a naughty, little, thing aren't you?” a woman purrs.

Wings struggles instantly, but the grip is too strong. Fuck.

“Oh do keep struggling, darling; I like it.”

Wings hooks a leg back behind the woman's knee and _yes_ crumples her stance, spinning around and letting the woman have the jacket in her hands as she stumbles.

Wings barely notices the sudden cold because the woman is fucking gorgeous and she gives Wings a grin full of malice and threat and… amusement.

Stepping back warily, Wings spits, “What d'ye _want_?”

“Oh, you, sweetheart,” the woman says, advancing perilously.

Wings swallows. “Um...”

The woman pulls Wings' long braid just like the man on the floor did. Her keys are still in his eyes. Fuck. What does she do?

Ow. The woman slams Wings back up against the wall, and without the protection of the thick leather, the teen's back is now bleeding where the wounds have reopened.

“What were you planning on doing next?” the woman asks playfully.

Disposing of the ruptured eye somehow. Wings presses her lips together.

“You're going to need to dispose of that body dear. Little thing like you, I bet you'll struggle.”

“Don't need to move it,” Wings says coldly.

The woman looks unimpressed. “And how do you figure that?”

The man's wearing gloves; none of Wings' skin under his fingernails. Her hair doesn't shed easily in the braid.

“You really want to see?” Wings asks.

The woman steps back with a grin. “Oh yes dear. But I should warn you: Mummy might have to punish you should you try to run away.”

Wings grimaces, but she pushes past and drops to her knees before the corpse. Fuck, she's really going to…

Wings wriggles the split eye loose. Rising to her feet, she holds it up. “There: the evidence.”

“And how are you going to prevent the DNA transferring to your pocket?” the woman asks.

Wings already knows the answer and it churns her stomach in disgust. 

“Like this,” she says, and pulls the eyeball off of her reddened keys with her lips.

Oh fuck, it's gross and big and wet and fuck fuck fuck-

The woman's face splits in shock and delight. “Well now,” she whispers, aren't you a treat?”

Wings makes a face and wishes she had anything to take the taste away. “You got a cigarette?”

The woman blinks. “Of course. But not here dear: not clever to leave ash at the crime scene.”

Wings is uncertain whether she cares anymore. She just ate an eye. Not even a live one. That's hardly going to get her into uni.

The woman is leading Wings by the elbow out of the alley and Wings hardly notices. Once clear, the woman takes out a white-tipped cigarette and holds it out level with Wings' mouth.

Wings takes it between her lips without thinking, only starting to regain awareness of her surroundings as the woman leans forward playfully to light the tip.

“So what do you do on a second date?” the woman asks.

“Haven't even asked me on a first date yet,” Wings says, paying much more attention to the acrid taste burning her throat than her own words.

The woman's eyes glitter. “Do we exchange names first?”

“No one uses my name anymore,” Wings says.

“Then what do they call you?”

Reluctantly, Wings turns her back. She intended to pull up her teeshirt, but the woman sees blood seeping through the white fabric and pushes it up herself.

Wings stands stiffly, focusing on her cigarette.

She straightens with a jolt, her breath catching, as the woman runs expensive nails over the fresh scar tissue, teasing the split edges.

Wings rolls her shoulders in agitation.

“Oh my,” says the woman, stepping back but not dropping the shirt. “Angel wings; right?”

Wings grunts.

“Better hope those don't get infected.”

Wings blows out a cloud of smoke and shrugs. “They'll scar better if they do.”

“They'll scar fine with lemon juice,” the woman comments.

Wings looks around. “You can smell it?”

The woman smiles mysteriously and straightens Wings' teeshirt at last.

“Thanks for the fag,” Wings says after a beat.

The woman smirks. “Oh sweetheart, once I'm done with you the _neighbours_ are going to need a cigarette.”

“Not fucking likely,” Wings snort.

“Not your type?” the woman mocks.

“No one gets to touch me,” Wings says darkly.

The woman smiles wanly. “Well if you give me your number I can help you touch yourself instead?”

Wings blinks then leans forwards and puts the end out swiftly on the woman's exposed décolletage.

“You couldn't handle me, princess.”

Wings ignores the heated look in the other's eyes as she walks away.

“You've forgotten your jacket!” the woman exclaims playfully.

“Fuck you,” Wings calls over her shoulder, not pausing.

“Should I just drop it off at the home then?”

Wings freezes.


	12. Chapter 12

There's blood sticking to the back of Jim's thin legs again and he picks at it idly. That upsets some of the scabs, and he focuses on the sharp burn it causes.

He doesn't cry. It stings as red wetly coats his still somewhat numb fingers.

The earlier pain had paralysed him, but now this pain brings Jim back. Helps him focus.

His head buzzes. His whole body seems to tremble with adrenaline under his skin, but on the outside he doubts that shows.

Jim really hurts. The more he comes back to himself the more he notices.

He could get up and brave a shower, but Jim lacks the motivation. What is the purpose? The water might wash away some of the evidence, but certain marks and aches and memories with remain, and the water's only going to hurt on the broken skin.

And he might get into trouble for using the hot water.

And sitting up is about the limit of Jim's energy levels right now.

'Little queer.'

Jim sighs and wonders whether the problem is not in fact his seeming queerness -despite the fact he has never consented to anything homosexual- and is more to do with how small he is. Undernourished and as pliable as a rag doll.

There's really not much he can do to make it stop. Certainly his tiny fists and teeth do him little in the way of favours.

It's not so bad when he just takes it.

Only it is. It is bad. It turns his stomach and it hurts and it's shameful and-

When he doesn't fight there is an implicit suggest that he likes it. That he consents. And that burns worse than the punishment for supposedly liking it.

Jim burns and burns and burns. His body and his mind aches and if he could just…

There's no other thing for it. Jim's going to have to cross that line.

And he better not get caught, because if this is how he is treated by his own blood father, what would happen to tiny Jim in prison?

Jim cannot say that he's never thought about killing his father before. He wonders whether anyone would believe premeditated murder to be a valid form of self defence.

What else can Jim do? Tell a teacher?

Yeah fuck that. He's gotten enough stripes for his poor attendance when he's been too sore to limp the distance to school, never mind sitting down for hours and trying to avoid the numerous bullies. The teachers don't fucking care. He's just another fucking poor kid doing his best to look clean in a trashed uniform and handing in bloodstained homework with muddy bootprints on.

Jim idly wonders whether his grades can pull him out of this hellhole.

If he doesn't get locked away for killing his father.

Jim's seen the city burn when he was very little. Was a common sight once. It's an almost comforting memory picturing the tightness of fear in his father's younger face.

God, Jim could burn them. Burn this house, perhaps this entire insufferable town. Burn them all. Hear the screams. Smell the smoke in the air, coating his clothes and hair, burning acrid in the back of his throat and floating dryly in his lungs. Jim can practically hear the crackle of flames and the heavy OOMPH of something gas-powered combusting. The walls would shake with it. You'd hear it for miles. Jim can taste the dirty air on his tongue. Feel ash tickle his skin like fluffy snowflakes.

But no.

Jim would definitely get caught.

So, how?

Anything physical is out. And Jim's not even strong enough to pull the trigger of his Da's gun, even if the man didn't knock it from his hands. And it's best not thinking what the punishment for _that_ might be.

Poison?

Jim's good with chemicals. He could use poison.

One that _burns_. It absolutely has to hurt and shock and _punish_.

There's a nice symmetry to that. Burning his father's insides for every time the bastard has split and burned Jim's own.

...It fucking hurts to move.


	13. Chapter 13

Christabelle Moran looks good for a dead woman. She has expensively treated, perfectly coifed hair and a willowy figure.

Uncrossing legs sheathed in seamed stockings, she leaves her desk and glides over in suede court shoes. She holds out her right hand to Jim, her destroyed knuckles perfectly visible, but he does not notice.

He is utterly distracted by her face.

She has a brilliant red stripe across it, under her eyes, from Wings crushing her nose. Bruising swells out vividly. There's an odd balance to it, Christabelle with her horizontal mark and Sebastian with his vertical facial scar. 

Christabelle is nonchalant about the stare, shaking Jim's hand and rolling eyes under painted lids as she indicates her PA. “She got a lucky shot in.” 

Wings wrinkles her nose prettily as she snorts. “Fuck you that was skill.” 

Christabelle smirks with a steel that is in stark, electric contrast to the soft curves of her demure blouse. “Was it?” 

Wings spreads her shoulders and tilts her chin. “You want another?” 

“Nice office,” Sebastian says, trying to squash the bickering. Not for the first time.

“Oh, it's Wings', dear,” Christabelle says. “I wouldn't be caught dead in this neighbourhood.” 

“Fuck you,” Wings laughs easily. 

“Now as my wife you'd think you'd be more up for doing that,” Christabelle purrs. 

Wings turns scarlet and glances at the men. “It's a fucking business arrangement!” she snaps. 

Sebastian tries not to smile. Christabelle has been trying to wear Wings down for years and the results have been varied.

Which is probably something that Christy enjoys.

“If it was really about the hospital rights would we have done it in Vegas, dear?” Christabelle smirks. 

“We'll see how smug you are when you're alone in a hospital room,” Wings grumbles. 

Christabelle smiles with an obviously feigned benign expression. “You'd have to heal up completely to really put me on my ass, and that's never going to happen.” 

“Don't forget who makes your caramel frappachinos in the mornings, bitch,” Wings says sweetly. 

“Honey pie, do you want me to move your base of operations back to New York?”

Wings gives her employer a downright ugly warning look. “I'm going to go poison your coffee,” she announces. “You boys want anything?”

“We'll pass on poisoned coffee, thanks,” Jim says.

Wings smiles, murmuring, “Suit yourselves,” and then something about 'motherfucking New York.'

“Do you always need to noise her up?” Sebastian asks.

Christabelle rolls her eyes. “Oh don't you start, darling. You know I'm not mean enough to send my little cannibal to New York.”

Sebastian raises his brows skeptically. 

Christabelle's pouty lips twitch. “Alright,” she admits, “so I would very much enjoy torturing her thus if she was naughty enough, but she's not stupid enough to take the bait.”

“Poor kid,” Sebastian says.

Christabelle raises a shaped brow. “That 'poor kid' is going mad from the kill ban, but she _still_ won't play up enough for me to fairly punish her.”

Sebastian curls his lip. “Oh, you're discovering fairness in your old age, are you?”

Christabelle chuckles softly. “Oh, come here, you brat.”

Sebastian smiles as his willowy older sister pulls him into a tight embrace. She is much stronger than she appears.

“I've missed your backchat,” she says, planting a fond kiss on his head without having to go on her tiptoes.

“I've missed you full stop,” he rumbles, then pulls back a little. “Are you seriously telling me Wings doesn't sass you every hour of the day?”

“Oh, she bucks, but she's pretty and it's part of her dubious charm. And it's different, because I like taking her to task,” Christabelle replies.

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “When have you ever taken me to task?”

“I hardly needed to with everyone else needling you,” Christabelle drawls with a roll of her eyes. Her perfume smells strong, expensive and feminine. Sebastian associates it with comfort.

Christabelle pulls back a little, stroking Sebastian's cropped hair. She beckons Jim. 

The brunet steps closer uncomfortably, and is surprised when Sebastian's sister pulls him into the hug. Jim swallows, but Sebastian brushes a thumb over Jim's thin wrist, and that helps.

“And now there's you to keep my errant brother in line, isn't there, Jim, pet?”

Sebastian gives a small, playfully disloyal grin as Jim's expression tightens. “I wouldn't call him that Christy.”

“Oh dear, fussy, are we?” Christabelle teases. “Never mind, you'll fit in well enough in that case.”

Jim grunts softly, watching the woman very carefully.

“Well now,” Christabelle starts, still very close, “shall we take a seat and make some gentle conversation Jim, or shall be jump right into discussions?”

Normally Jim likes to get to the point, but as embarrassing as it is to admit, he feels wary. He wants the idle chitchat to give him time to get a better read on the woman.

Sebastian rubs Jim's shoulder. “Let's keep it mild for a while.”

Jim looks up at him with an expressionless face but his eyes are approving. Grateful.

“Absolutely, boys,” Christabelle says. She gives Jim a gentle, conspiratorial look. “Shall I tell you about what an adorable little troublemaker Sebbykins was as a small boy?”

Sebastian narrows his eyes without venom. “There shall be _no_ photos, Christabelle.”

She gives him a wicked grin. The teasing makes Jim feel a little less stressed.


	14. Chapter 14

“Hey now, darling you're okay. I'm here; you're okay.”

Sebastian clutches his sister tightly, his young frame rocked with violent tremors. Blood mars his back and is splashed down his face.

“Cry if you like,” Christabelle says, pressing her lips to Sebastian's face. “He's gone now. He won't hear.”

That's all it takes before Sebastian is spluttering, hot tears spilling down his cheeks and streaking through the congealed blood. His sister holds him tightly, careful not to touch the fresh wounds or the remnants of older ones.

“I-I-I really t- _tried_ ,” Sebastian sobs.

“I know you did, sweetheart, of course you did,” Christabelle soothes.

“Nothing's-Nothing's...” Sebastian rocks forwards in a struggle to catch his breath. Christabelle massages the middle of his chest because she cannot touch his back.

Sebastian gets his breathing a little more under control. “S'never good enough. N-nothing's ever...”

“You don't have to be good, Sebby, you only need to be yourself,” Christabelle says firmly.

“He hates me,” the blond boy sniffs.

Christabelle doesn't lie. “He hates all of us, love, and it's not your fault. _You are perfect_ ,” she says fiercely.

“I-I-I just – Why can't he love me?” Sebastian snivels.

Christabelle grips her baby brother's face carefully and fixes her gaze on his swimming blue eyes. “Because he is a monster,” she says firmly. “The monsters under the bed aren't nearly so bad as the ones that walk amongst us. He's not like us, Sebby. He can't love anything, even himself. We just need to keep away from him. We just need to hide from the monster, okay?”

“H-H-He _al-always_ f-f-finds us.”

Christabelle presses her face against Sebastian's. “As soon as I'm sixteen I'm taking you away and he won't find us. He won't.”

Tears and blood mix with Christabelle's pale make-up. “Wh-What about Rinn?”

Christabelle kisses Sebastian's hot little temple. “We won't leave him behind. I'll steal enough money for rent and I'll get a job and we can share a tiny little flat somewhere they'll never find us and we'll move as much of your savings to a different account so you can still go to school… We just need to hang on a little longer.”

“I hate it here,” Sebastian whispers.

“He's leaving for business in two days,” Christabelle says. “Then it'll calm down. We just need to keep you out of his way so he doesn't stripe you again before he goes, alright?”

Sebastian nods obediently. “I'll try.”

Christabelle kisses his forehead. His face is so flushed from crying. “Good boy.”

Sebastian sniffs. “It really hurts,” he says in a small voice.

Christabelle rubs her thumb over Sebastian's tear tracks. “I know baby, I know.”

“M'Sorry I got you hit,” Sebastian says wetly.

Christabelle smiles through her burst lip and ignores her worst aches. “I'm your big sister. Protecting you is what I'm here for.”

Sebastian buries his little face into Christabelle's chest. “Love you, Christy.”

The teenage girl kisses her brother's neck, careful of the bleeding welts that creep up the delicate skin. “I love you too, Sebby sweet.” She strokes his short blond hair. “Come on. Let's get you some tablets then you can lie on my bed and I'll clean up your back, okay?”

Sebastian drags his fist across his wet eyelashes and gives a small nod. “'Kay,” he says a little hoarsely.

Christabelle leads the child carefully to the bathroom and leans up to get painkillers from the cabinet. She ignores the sight of the livid bruises marking her wrist and the way it hurts to force her hands to clench as she tackles the child-proof lid.

She fills a glass of water and hands Sebastian the medicine, pocketing his next dose for later. She won't take any for herself in case the lack is noticed.

She washes her brother's face gently.

Sebastian follows Christabelle meekly to her room and lets her help to undress him although he's been capable of doing it himself for years. He whimpers as she gently peels his expensive shirt from his shredded back.

The shirt's torn from the force of the blows.

Christabelle presses kisses into unbroken skin to comfort and guides Sebastian over to her bed. He lies on his tummy as obedient as always.

His back is in a bad way. The old bruises were ugly enough but today he's been cut open deeply. They'll scar. Christabelle doesn't have anything to prevent that.

But at least she doesn't need to hold Sebby down and keep him quiet as she stitches him up.

Small fucking mercies. Poor little kid.

Christabelle lifts down her make-up wipes and does her best to clean her brother's back, trying not to hurt him as she peels fluff from his torn shirt out of his sticky wounds.

Sebastian does his best to be brave.

They can't risk bandaging him in case it angers their father further during the almost inevitable next round, but Christabelle rubs a cool salve all over Sebastian's sore back and lies alongside him as it dries in.

“I wish he was dead,” Sebastian says. “Is that bad?”

Christabelle shakes her head at her little brother's wide, guilty eyes and smooths his golden fringe gently. “I'm going to poison him some day,” she says.


	15. Chapter 15

Christabelle's penthouse above Wings' base of operations is spacious and open plan. She takes breakfast with her brother Sebastian and his lover Jim in an entirely unflappable manner.

Despite the fact that her PA and wife, Wings, is blacked out on the nearby couch, blood dripping from her ear.

It makes Jim uneasy.

“Don't you think she should see a doctor?” Sebastian asks.

“Oh, my favourite reanimated corpse needs to rest occassionally,” Christabelle says calmly, throwing a fond glance over her shoulder. “Apparently it is quite exhausting being so close to death all the time. Or so she tells me.”

“She looks like death,” Jim says softly.

“I would say so,” Christabelle agrees. “My little Humpty Dumpty is beyond scrambled.”

“Then why don't you stop?” Jim asks.

“Wings only feels alive when she's close to death,” Christabelle comments, cutting up her breakfast into small bite sized pieces as though the admission does not faze her at all. “It's at least a controlled environment if it's by my hand.”

Sebastian gives her an uneasy look. “And what about when-”

“Then I hope to God she finally finds some peace,” Christabelle says a little sharply. She pauses. “Sorry. I haven't come to terms with it yet.”

“You'd beat your wife to death?” Jim asks. It shouldn't bother him, but he can't even stomach his toast.

Christabelle shrugs. “Semi-retirement doesn't suit her, and she's getting frail… She won't wait around to heal up. We are aware it is not an ideal situation.”

“So you lock her up until she's less of a danger to herself,” Sebastian says.

Christabelle makes a face. “Have you tried that with yours? Trust me, Wings does not respond well to being coddled.”

 

“I need to be able to trust you with Jim,” Sebastian says stiffly. 

Christabelle gives him a patient look. “Jim's needs are not her own. They are very different people.”

“They both want to be hurt to levels that I'm not comfortable with,” Sebastian retorts.

Jim stares at his plate. He wants to say he would never put Sebastian through such suffering, but if the only thing that helped was to shatter his skull… well...

Christabelle fixes her intelligent gaze on him. “Jim, what is your opinion on using your own forehead to break bulletproof glass on the top floor of this building in order to scale down to escape to another floor?”

Jim looks up. “A fucking suicide mission.”

“Not tempting in the slightest?”

He grimaces. “Not in the least.”

“There now,” Christabelle says calmly. “Our taste in life partners is not the same, Sebby.”

“What if he needs more and more pain, Christy?” Sebastian asks. Jim reaches out and places a hand on his partner's arm. Squeezes reassuringly.

Christabelle shakes her head. “He's like me, not her. It's torturous, but not terminal.”

Jim blinks. It's never really occurred to him that someone could suffer the mental trauma _worse_ than him.

Christabelle smiles grimly. “It's a humbling thought, isn't it?”

“How do you cope? With that on top of...” Christ, the thought of Sebastian suffering like that...

Christabelle gestures airily, her lips quirked tightly. “I have informed Wings I shall be rather cross if she does not haunt me.”

“If she doesn't?” Sebastian murmurs.

Christabelle shrugs. “Every other voice finds me. Why not hers?”

“Can you choose which voices come?” Jim asks.

“Jesus no, but I can ask them, I suppose,” Christabelle muses. She turns around. “Sebastian,” she says sharply.

Her younger brother looks up quickly. He has been staring ashen faced at Wings.

“She is not Jim,” Christabelle says firmly.

Sebastian gives her a despairing look.

“She is not Jim,” Christabelle repeats. “Jim wants pain to relieve the pressure and quieten the noise. _That's not why Wings is falling apart._ ”

“What could be worse than what we experience?” Jim asks, uncertain whether he wants to actually know.

Christabelle's hands still, the action full of guilt and pain. “We are the lucky ones,” is all she says.


	16. Chapter 16

Wings can sleep anywhere, in any position, and through anything. She's slept on her feet, barely stirs at explosions, and takes no interest in fire engine sirens blaring from her property. It is something that Christabelle envies.

It's not that Wings doesn't face the nightmares either, or the terrors, or the paralysis or phantoms. She just doesn't _care_ , having such a close relationship with sleep that its associated traumas don't deter her. Wings is brave and possessive of her rest.

For all Wings loves sleep, and for all the things her subconscious screens as unimportant -a fucking explosion- she is also intricately wired to Christabelle's own wellbeing.

Fluttering eyelashes can wake Wings. A variance in breath, a sudden movement, a sudden stillness… anything that suggests Christabelle requires attention has Wings' attention.

For some things she doesn't even need to wake up, just press closer. 

Other times, like tonight, Wings will entirely forego sleep, even though her aching body screams for healing rest.

Because tonight, Christabelle is not merely haunted. She is afraid, and crying.

Wings sits before her, her boyish body catching the moonlight wandering in from the large windows. She looks otherworldly in the strange lighting and her shoulders are icy to the touch.

“Christy.”

Christabelle continues to shake with sobs. Her wet eyes raise to her wife.

Wings runs a cold hand over Christabelle's blonde waves. “Bad tonight, huh?”

“Hell,” Christabelle says without exaggeration. Her voice is thick and raw.

“I'm with you,” Wings says soothingly.

Christabelle snivels, big eyes grateful. Wings wipes away the tears and clear snot, pressing a kiss on Christy's temple.

“They're so angry,” Christabelle whispers. “I'm scared.”

“They can't hurt you,” Wings says firmly. “I'm here to watch over you.”

Christabelle shakes her head. “You shouldn't. I deserve this.” 

“It's my job to determine what you deserve, Christy,” Wings growls.

Christabelle blinks. “Yes.” Then her face crumples. “I don't know why you put up with me. With this. I… I'm not...”

Wings grips Christabelle's chin. “You do not have permission to finish that thought.”

Christabelle swallows. “Sorry, I-”

“I know,” Wings says firmly. “I know.”

Christabelle squeezes out more tears as she presses her eyes closed miserably. “They hate me.”

“Fuck them,” Wings dismisses roughly. “They don't matter.”

Christabelle frowns thoughtfully, biting her lip as she muses, “It's not like when people are mad. I _feel_ their emotions all through the air, big as storm clouds. I can't- It's overwhelming.”

“I make a very distracting umbrella,” Wings quips.

Christabelle cracks the first smile of the night. It's small. “My angel of death.”

“Yes,” Wings agrees. “And I am _far_ more frightening than them.”

Christabelle kisses the cracks of Wings' skull, feeling hidden by the hisses and winces Wings makes in reply, pulling Christabelle close all the while.

Christabelle licks dried blood and disinfectant from her lips, grateful of the toxic taste for its distraction.

“My Frankenstein's monster,” Christabelle says. “How are you even alive?”

“You're my spark,” Wings declares. “I'd have been gone a long time ago if I didn't have you to defend.”

“My dear pet monster,” Christabelle murmurs, stroking Wings' face. “Proof that I belong to the shadows.”

“And they to you,” Wings agrees firmly. “There is nothing to fear in the night.”

“There's still me,” Christabelle sighs.

“You don't need to fear yourself when I'm here,” Wings states.

“I want to hurt myself,” Christabelle admits starkly.

Wings doesn't blink. “I know you do, love. Hurt me instead.”

“What if I kill you?”

Wings strokes Christabelle's face soothingly. “Then I'll protect you in the next lifetime too.”


	17. Chapter 17

Christabelle leads Sebastian and Jim to a room that makes both men unconsciously step closer together until touching.

“This is my main play room,” the blonde woman announces. She stands for a while, allowing their wide, wary eyes to travel their surroundings, then she crosses over to a couch and sits down.

Jim inhales deeply then follows Christabelle. Sebastian does not move, feeling panic and distaste as he observes the multitude of weapons and implements mounted on the walls. Plenty of them might have been fun to play with, and there are others Sebastian could stomach using on Jim at the brunet's request… but…

No. He is not comfortable with this. He will go along with it anyway of course, because Jim doesn't just want this, he _needs_ this, but Sebastian feels sick.

“Tiger, it's okay,” Jim says.

Sebastian turns at the warm voice. “Sorry,” the blonde says at once. He moves to Jim's side.

“We aren't going to utilise _anything_ that you don't both agree on,” Christabelle reassures.

“Why do I get a vote?” Sebastian asks. “It's for Jim.”

“Because you know him and his limits,” Christabelle explains. “You care about him, so you will rank his safety higher than he might to be inclined to due to the pressure he is enduring.”

“But surely you know what he can manage?” Sebastian presses.

“I know what I can give him and keep him alive, but alive is not unbroken,” Christabelle states. “I'm primarily a torturer, not a dominatrix.”

“So you could hurt me?” Jim states.

“The plan is to hurt you,” Christabelle says dryly. “Negotiating between the three of us is to minimise the risk of exposing you to actual harm.”

“You don't know what can be recovered from?” Sebastian asks.

“Physically and mentally are not the same thing. I can physically heal better from a drowning than third degree burns, but drowning panics me far more than blistering and melting my skin,” Christabelle explains.

“That makes sense to me,” Jim says. “Sebastian?”

“I suppose,” the blond sighs. “How… how harsh are we thinking to start on?”

“Hard enough to knock me out; not hard enough that I need intensive care,” Jim answers swiftly.

Christabelle considers him. “You know that being hurt isn't the only way to make it stop?” 

“What do you mean?” Jim asks. Sebastian leans closer hopefully.

Christabelle shrugs, looking utterly unfazed by the terrible items decorating the space. “Wings absolutely hates being bent over, but she's willing enough to let me spank her against the piano when I'm in a wretched mood. I believe Sebastian would consent to help you in any way he feels he can.” 

Sebastian nods, stretching out his muscular arms because he feels uncomfortable about the admission. He'd boil his own head if it helped Jim.

Jim glances at Sebastian for permission to mention their personal lives. “I've… tried, but taking it out on Bastian only works when it's mild. It's too distracting when it's… bad.” 

Christabelle nods as if the little brunet is not confessing to hurting her darling baby brother. She won't judge what Sebby consents to. She asks, “What have you tried?”

The boys pitch in with bits and pieces, and Christabelle continues to field pertinent questions. They talk and talk and talk and talk, and Sebastian starts to relax just a little.

And then Christabelle gets up to give them some privacy to talk themselves, and he notices there is a fucking bone saw mounted to the wall, and he goes white. His willingness to go along with any of this drains utterly away and his brain is already sending signals to his legs to move. Christabelle has always been true, but Sebastian is going to pick Jim up and drag them the hell out of here whether the brunet wants to stay or not.

They'll find some other way to manage this suffering. Somehow.

Jim turns around. “Bastian. I'm not that stupid. And you'd never let me take a risk like that. _Breathe_.”

“Sorry,” Sebastian sighs. “I just...”

“I know love. I appreciate that you're here,” Jim says.

Sebastian blinks. “As if I'd leave you alone with this?”

“Exactly,” Jim says. “I can always rely on you Bastian.”

“Well of course,” the blond says.

“I love you,” Jim says quietly.

Sebastian leans closer. “And I love you too.”

Jim smiles crookedly. “Even though I put you through stuff like this?”

“I'd never blame you for this,” Sebastian says firmly. He presses a kiss into Jim's relieved mouth.


	18. Chapter 18

“STOP!”

Jim spits blood and looks up at Sebastian with a strange, half spaced out expression. Christabelle steps back immediately, running her gaze over the injuries she has inflicted and assessing what aid will be required.

Sebastian drops down beside Jim.

“Did that take the edge off?” Sebastian asks gently, cradling the broken body in his arms. 

Jim splutters. Eventually he heaves up enough blood to admit in a cracked voice, “I couldn't take that regularly.” 

“Thank fuck. Couple of years?” Sebastian responds, checking over Jim's considerable injuries carefully. 

“Six months?” Jim suggests. 

“Annually's more than enough,” Wings says firmly. She carries over materials to clean and dress the wounds, which Sebastian takes instantly. 

Jim looks at her for having the audacity to make his decisions. 

Wings gives him a scathing look. “Do I not look like a bloody expert on this?” 

“Literally bloody if you keep frowning, pet,” Christabelle comments. The action is causing Wings' scabs to crease.

Wings rolls her eyes and jabs a finger at Jim. “I'm serious. Be sparing with this. It's damaging.”

Jim sighs. “I'll take that under consideration.” He pauses. “Why… How..?” 

“Why do I go beyond safe sane and consensual so often? Can't say.” Wings gives a stilted shrug and steps away, allowing Sebastian to tend to Jim.

Sebastian glances after her for a split second then returns his attention to stemming the blood flow from Jim's many contusions. “Did we just offend her?” Sebastian asks his sister quietly.

“No, darling; she's brooding,” Christabelle murmurs. She dips to her knees and helps tend to the flesh she has brutalised.

Jim lays back and ponders the ridiculousness of his own situation. Now that his head is thankfully fucking quiet he is increasingly aware of the intense, incredible _pain_ he is experiencing.

Christabelle gives him a knowing look. “You need something for the sting?”

Jim chuckles darkly, blood coating his teeth. “'Sting'.”

“Your beau might flinch if I say 'agony',” Christabelle teases, although it's true.

Sebastian's brows furrow a little. “Funny that. Almost like I hate for my other half to suffer.”

Jim brushes him lightly, awkwardly, with an aching hand. “It's 'other half' now?”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Half might be an overly optimistic fraction. You've probably lost a few pounds in blood loss if the colour of your clothes is any indication.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jim says. He forces his bleary eyes to focus intently on Sebastian. “How are you?”

The blond makes a face. “Glad the worst bit's over.”

Christabelle grins. “You've still got the bit where he whines about how sore he is, and blames and badgers you for everything, to look forwards to.”

Sebastian chuckles softly. “So like any time he deigns to spread his legs then.”

“Hey!”

“Where was the lie?” Sebastian teases.

“You don't _tell_ people that,” Jim grumbles mildly.

Sebastian raises his brows. “You put me through,” he waves a hand at Jim's bloodied appearance, “ _this_ , so I say that gives me free rein to embarrass you as much as I please.”

Jim pouts. “See how smug you feel when I hand Wings your eyes for a snack.”

Christabelle sniggers at her little brother's expression.

Wings quietly picks up a few used implements and carries them off to wash them.

“Is she alright?” Jim asks.

Christabelle watches Wings push away. “Sometimes. It's her job to put me down if things get too desperate. She'd do it in a heartbeat, loyal to a fault, but… it costs her.”

Sebastian looks up quickly, then glances back to Jim. The blond can suddenly completely understand why the kid would want to smash her brains in. He would to, if he had to kill the person he loved most.


	19. Chapter 19

The children's home is behind her, but Wings' growing relationship with Christabelle is still new enough to make her skittish. That is, both the professional one that allows Wings to tap into certain dark things she's always kept hidden before, and the personal one, which has the boyish teen shuddering with every heated touch.

Christabelle is uncertain whether it's guilt that has the younger woman so twitchy. If it is, it must be poorly placed, because when she unleashes Wings with a blade or a garotte on some deserving scumbag the young woman takes to it gleefully, an electric darkness seeping from her soul and pores.

The blonde woman understands the other aspect of their relationship even less. Wings is blatantly not attracted to men, just being looked upon by them repulses her, but she is not overly welcoming of Christabelle's amorous advances. It does not seem to be internalised homophobia, because Christabelle's touch does not make Wings sneer or stiffen in disgust.

Instead, heated touches seem to leave Wings bored or confused. She will tolerate it for a while, not necessarily looking unpleased, then will turn and leave like a particularly independent cat.

Christabelle always liked cats, especially the cold ones which grew affectionate with her.

After a while Wings seems to accept Christabelle's proximity as an ordinary part of their day to day lives. She surprises Christabelle by dropping into her lap at random, not seeming to glean much comfort from the touch, but considering it familiar and ordinary.

Christabelle risks trying to kiss Wings a few times, but whilst the shorter girl doesn't push her away with much displeasure, she doesn't seem very enthusiastic. Except after a fight or a kill, when Wings gets a lot more excitable, but even then she quickly bores.

Christabelle wonders whether it is _her_ that bores Wings, and observes her suspiciously with every woman they come into contact with, but no one in particular seems to provoke the teen's interest.

Except when fighting. When sparring or in mortal peril Wings grins with a fire that burns Christabelle to her core.

Wings is an odd little creature, and it amuses Christabelle a little to have found someone _she_ considers odd.

Wings is just so laidback and… apathetic… about almost everything. It is both soothing to Christabelle and rather intriguing. She wants to know what makes quiet Wings tick other than banter and violence.

Wings dives into Christabelle's bedroom that night, drawn by screams. The blonde sees a depth to Wings' protectiveness that she had not recognised before in the unreadable creature, and Christabelle spills a number of her secrets.

Wings sleeps in Christabelle's bed thereafter.

Eventually Christabelle finds most of her time involves Wings' presence. She starts involving the teen in more of her dubious work, Wings becoming a surprisingly regular fixture of Christabelle's main office.

Wings starts amending and improving the plans strewn across Christabelle's desk.

And that's when the blonde knows: she does not bore Wings.

Unfortunately, Wings did not have the practice in hiding her cracks that Christabelle did. The blonde walks into her office one day to find Wings pacing, pen in hand and papers everywhere.

“I can't hide it,” Wings says desperately. 

Somehow Christabelle knows at once that she's not talking bout work. “Hide what?”

Wings shivers, twitches, paces. Her hands are tensed at an unpleasant angle. She glances up swiftly and gives Christabelle a panicked look. “I need you to knock my brains out.” 

“Why?” Christabelle asks softly.

Wings gives a pained giggle and hands over a notebook. As she does, Christabelle notes that the twitching hands are covered in writing. When the blonde opens the notebook she discovers it is completely full of genius, manic writing in tiny script.

“This is profound,” Christabelle states.

“I know. I can't make it stop,” Wings sighs.

“Why would you want to?” Christabelle asks.

“ _Because it won't stop_ ,” Wings groans. “Does this sometimes. It won't- It just won't _stop_.”

“Why don't I make use of those brains instead? Focus you?” Christabelle suggests.

Wings seems tempted but then shakes her head. “Won't help. Make me stupid; please make me stupid.” 

Christabelle looks at the other young woman soberly and considers. She understands the suffering; she understands the desire for escape. The blonde nods. “On your head be it.” 

Wings looks instantly relieved. “Thank you.”

“Go get your headgear,” Christabelle orders.

Wings gives a crooked grin although her eyes are still grateful. “No gear. I need a proper distraction.”

Christabelle understands and agrees.

Afterwards Wings leans against her, unusually tactile. Christabelle cards her fingers through Wings' long tresses, examining the clumps of blood.

“We should cut your hair darling; it'll be much easier to tend to any more wounds like this.”

Wings leans her cheek on the blonde's thigh. “Alright, Christy.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Ouch, you look rough.”

Jim raises his eyes to his lover's sister, Christabelle, with a dry expression. “I don't think much of your beside manner.”

She titters wryly and joins him on the couch, folding her long legs underneath herself. “I have access to lots of painkilling drugs so I would be nice to me, were I you.”

Jim bares his teeth, stretching out his burst lips and exposing raw gums. “I don't need drugs.”

Sebastian gives him a look from the opposite couch. “I'm dosing you up before bedtime tonight.”

Jim makes a face. “I don't need-”

“James, I was in the same bed as you last night. You'll take your medicine like a good boy or we won't be doing this again,” Sebastian states firmly.

“I'd humour him, darling, it's usually a waste of breath arguing with my brother when he's feeling stubborn,” Christabelle says.

“Oh don't I know it,” Jim mutters.

The blond gives them a mildly scandalised look. “Excuse me, _I'm_ the difficult one?”

Jim twitches his scabbed lips. “Good of you to apologise. You're excused.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes churlishly. “I'd smack you one, but you probably wouldn't notice it under all those other bruises.”

“Charming as always, Bastian,” Jim smirks.

The blond smooches the air mockingly, making the brunet's eyes sparkle.

“Oh, aren't you pair cute?” Christabelle teases.

Both men give her a dissatisfied look which makes her grin.

Wings walks into the room brandishing a phone. “Your little French-Canadian friend wants to know if he can shoot his new spotter. Talks too much apparently.”

Christabelle makes a face. “Obviously not. What did you tell him?”

“I told him that if I have to put up with this ridiculous ban there's no way I'm sanctioning anything so satisfying.”

Christabelle raises a brow. “Did he argue?”

Wings snorts. “He knows fine well that there are a multitude of things I could do or have done to him which don't involve death at my hands.”

“So..?”

Wings drops down comfortably beside Sebastian. “So Chatty is actually good at his job. Do you have any suggestions on who I could switch him out with? Most of our temps are busy running damage control because of that idiot nazi's mess.”

Christabelle curls her lip. “Urgh, no, don't move any of them. Who do we have nearby?”

“Saunders, who I'm not moving. Rick and Jesse, who are occupied. Antonio, who's chatty too. Eriksson, who'd just punch him. Tommy's a bit green, and Pablo's just had a baby. Like an hour ago.”

Christabelle grins strangely. “How do you even know that?”

“It's my job to know. We sent him a card.”

“Since when are you HR?” Christabelle teases.

“Since you shot Agnes in the head on the office floor for embezzling from us and the six people we've had to hire to replace her can't remember shit about the staff,” Wings shrugs.

“Make it eight?” Christabelle suggests.

“Already interviewing,” Wings says. “So. Spotter?”

“About time Tommy was properly blooded I suppose,” Christabelle muses.

“Well I thought about that, but I'd have liked him working with someone competent to begin with. Frenchie's got his uses, but he's also got a bunch of bad habits that we overlook because his connections are useful.”

“What about neighboring states?” Sebastian asks.

“Not many,” says Wings. “There's Raviris normally, but he took a wound that won't heal easy. Johnson's too thick to cope with a strong accent. One of the kids you trained up, Julia, well she's not a kid anymore, but she's training up some of our newbies. I'd say she's more value where she is.”

“What about the kids she's training? Are any of them more experienced than Tommy?” Sebastian asks.

“Maaaybe? She does teach them properly. Good shout; I'll check,” Wings states, slouching down to ping off a quick email. She throws her legs over Sebastian's larger ones comfortably. He doesn't think anything of the touch, resting a hand on the woman's ankle. Jim finds it interesting to witness: Sebastian rarely spends time with old friends and they don't have new ones that either are so familiar with.

The entire trip has been an experience.

Sebastian turns back to Wings. “How's Joolz anyway?”

Wings glances up and smiles. “One of our best. Wouldn't even trade her for you.”

Sebastian laughs. “How do you figure that?”

“She can't play the big sister card,” Wings grins. She affects a whiny voice, “Chriiiiistyyyyy, Wings has had me out on this freezing rooftop for _days_ waiting to be told to take the shot.”

Sebastian chuckles. “That's not what I sound like, you bitch.”

Wings' eyes sparkle. “I could ask Julia? I'm sure she would agree with me.”

Sebastian pushes her off of his legs and the couch with a grin. She squeals and before the others can do much more than laugh she has thrown herself at the large man.

He hollers as the couch falls backwards underneath them. Jim cackles in delight at Sebastian's expression.

Christabelle curls her lip. “Kids, really?”

Sebastian throws a pillow at Wings' mouth then smirks at her and tosses another over the barrier of the couch at his sister.

She blinks as it hits her face and drops to her hands. She stands quickly. “Right! I know two little miscreants who could benefit from a _hiding_.”

Jim snorts at the resultant exclaimed jeers and protests. With a wince he spreads his fingers over his burning ribs.

Christabelle advances on the others and begins to batter her brother repeatedly about the ears and shoulders with the cushion in her hand. He yells and chuckles, trying to protect his eyes from the cover's zipper.

Sebastian reaches for his sister's leg to pull her down onto the floor with them, but she gives him a stern look and he pulls back instantly.

“Clever Sebby,” she praises, tapping her brother's head patronisingly, then steps around to swing the cushion at Wings' torso. “As for you! You're supposed to _defend_ me, you little cunt.”

Wings pushes Christabelle over. At first Jim laughs at the blonde's scream, but then he is chortling at Sebastian's distinctive grunt as his bony sister abruptly crushes him.

Eventually the trio tire of their playful tussling and righten the couch.

Christabelle steps towards Jim quickly. “Laughing hurts significantly; yes?”

He gives a tight nod. “Fuckers.”

She smirks lightly and pushes her hand down her side of the couch for a bag of pills. Sebastian gives them a dubious look.

“They're from our chemists,” Christabelle explains. “Something strong enough for Wings' headaches.”

Jim reaches for the bag. She pulls it out of the way with a knowing expression and hands him some. “Two is plenty.”

The brunet grimaces but takes them swiftly. He's in bloody agony.

But it helps.


	21. Chapter 21

They wait until Jim is mostly healed before booking the journey home, but the last of the brunet's bruises and deeper contusions draw looks from the airport staff.

Jim does not need to glare, merely to smile, and something in his disturbing gaze sends them away uneasily.

Sebastian is just glad to get him home. The blond has gleaned a great deal of comfort from seeing his sister again, but it feels ridiculously good to walk into their penthouse apartment and see Jim's shoulders relax.

Jim inhales the familiar scent of their surroundings fondly and toes his shoes off. Sebastian risks dumping their bags momentarily and steps forwards to take the little brunet's face in his hands. “Welcome home, love,” Sebastian whispers then brushes his lips over Jim's mouth.

Jim responds into the kiss immediately, even though his eyes and brain are still a little clouded with pain medication. He leans up on his sock covered toes and wraps his arms around the blond.

“Good to be home,” Jim says at last. He smiles. “With you.”

Sebastian nuzzles the shorter man. “Likewise.”

“Shower or sleep first?” Jim asks.

“Quick shower first if you're up to it?” Sebastian suggests. “I feel disgusting.”

Jim's lips quirk. “I thought you were disgusting.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Lucky for you, Kitten, I'm too tired to smack you one.”

Jim shrugs and starts undressing, dropping items to the floor for Sebastian to pick up. The blond gives him a wry grin, lips swollen red from Jim's stubble, and bends down. “I'm not your maid, Jimmy.”

“You always say that, but you never leave anything long enough for the housekeeper to pick up,” Jim responds.

“Because you would skin me,” Sebastian points out dryly.

Jim turns and smirks wickedly. “After all this and you're still wary of my temper?”

Sebastian snorts. “Would be stupid not to be.”

Jim raises a brow. “And you're not?” he asks with faux innocent.

Sebastian rolls up Jim's expensive shirt and throws it at the brunet. “Fuck you, Trinity College, I graduated Oxford with merit!”

Jim quirks his lips. “And who did you have to blow for that?”

Sebastian glowers. “I know a skinny little prick who's not getting a bedtime blowie.”

Jim bares his teeth. “Suck me off in the shower and I'll forgive that.”

Sebastian snorts and picks up the bags as well as Jim's clothes. “You'd be fucking lucky.”

“I habitually am,” Jim drawls and heads through to the bathroom. “Don't leave that shirt there if you want to live, Bastian...”

“Little arse,” Sebastian mutters mildly as he obeys.

“This little arse is about to soap up, so I'd hurry to get an eyeful if I was you, Moran,” Jim calls.

Sebastian laughs. “Thought you wanted me to get a mouthful?”

“I was thinking more a throatful,” Jim smirks from beneath the warm spray.

Sebastian rolls his eyes and starts unbuttoning his clothes. “Why is it always me sucking your cock?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Sebastian; you can't expect an invalid to get on his knees, can you?” Jim mocks.

“I'll crouch over you tomorrow if that makes it better for you darling,” Sebastian drawls.

Jim makes a face. “You always choke me like that, you great oaf.”

Sebastian steps into the shower and kisses the brunet's cheek. “Looks like you'll be on your knees after all, Kitten.”

Jim grips Sebastian's bicep and pushes down. “But right now, darling, it's alllllll about me.”

Sebastian snorts. “When is it ever not, Jim?”

“Oh sweetheart, don't pout, it just makes your lips more fuckable,” Jim purrs.

Sebastian rolls his eyes but drops to his knees on the wet tiles, grout imprinting patterns in his skin. “Fuck you, short arse.”

Jim plays with the wet spikes of Sebastian's hair. “You might as well forgive me now, Tiger, because tomorrow I intend for us to become reacquainted with every surface we own.”

Sebastian takes him in hand. “Is that so?”

“We can spread it over a few days if you're doubting your stamina, dear,” Jim mocks.

“I could use my teeth, you know,” Sebastian warns archly.

Jim smirks, leaning back against the wall. “You wouldn't da- OW!”

Both too tired to drag out the playfulness, Sebastian quickly gets to work ruining Jim. Afterwards they rinse off quickly and towel dry, padding through to their bed.

Sebastian pulls back the covers and settles Jim. “Do you feel better?” 

The brunet curls into him. “Much.”

Sebastian tugs the duvet around them both. “I was talking about...”

“My demons? Yes I know,” Jim says quietly. “I do feel better. Thank you.”

“Anything for you,” Sebastian states.

Jim twines their hands and holds them up to study. “I love you, Tiger.”

Sebastian kisses him softly. “I know, my little phantom. I love you too.”

Jim lowers their hands and leans his head against Sebastian's chest. All he hears that night is the reassuring thud of the larger man's booming heart.


	22. Chapter 22

“Are… you sure about this?” Sebastian asks for the umpteenth time.

“I offered, didn't?” Jim states patiently.

“Yeah… but we don't normally do… holidays,” Sebastian says dubiously.

Jim shrugs. “You miss them, and I trust them here. I can go to my office or out if it gets too much.”

“Are you sure?” Sebastian asks yet again.

Jim grimaces. “Next year I'll invite them directly and not bother telling you.”

Sebastian smiles slowly. “Sorry. Am I getting on your nerves?”

Jim tilts his head and considers the merits of tact versus honesty. “You're approaching that, Bastian, yes.”

Sebastian dips his head for a kiss. “Sorry. I just… It's been a long time since I've celebrated Christmas, you know?”

“We exchange gifts every year, darling,” Jim states dryly.

“Yes, but that's… us. You got us a _tree_ this year, Jim.”

Jim raises his brows. “I was under the impression that was the tradition, Tiger.”

Sebastian gives the ornament a helpless look. “Yes, for normal people. I can't remember being normal.”

“Bastian, relax,” Jim sighs. “Our normal is enough.”

Sebastian nods. “I'm just nervous,” he mutters.

“I don't know why,” Jim scoffs. “All they're going to want to do when they arrive is dump their bags and sleep somewhere more comfortable than a long haul flight.”

“And what about after?” Sebastian presses.

“We got along perfectly fine when we stayed with them,” Jim says calmly.

“True,” Sebastian muses.

Jim gives him a look. “If you don't settle down I'm going to knock you out and you can nap until they get here. You're making me edgy.”

“Sorry,” Sebastian says. He stands.

Jim snatches his wrist. “Don't you dare start pacing.”

Sebastian gives him a helpless look. 

Jim sighs and tugs the exasperating blond through to the bedroom. “Come along, let's burn some of this off. Make the most of having the place to ourselves for the moment.”

Sebastian nods gratefully.

Sebastian need not have worried, at least insofar as the worries he held about Christy and Wings spending Christmas with them were unfounded.

The women fit into the space and the company comfortably. Or at least, Christabelle looks entirely like she belongs with her tailored outfits and expensive jewellery. Wings looks a little too comfortable, seeming to consider the holiday as an excuse to cavort around in fuzzy, childish sleepwear and other ugly items.

Currently her slight, boyish build and absolute lack of good taste has led her to occupy Jim's couch wearing a boys' fleece onesie patterned with little skulls. Jim curls his lip at her but Wings disregards his notice, continuing to progress in fierce, efficient PA mode despite the ridiculous child's pajamas.

Sebastian meets his sister's gaze. For all their partners have very different tastes in attire, they seem to be glued to their phones, laptops or both most of the time. Efficient little clever clogs. 

Jim's phone pings and his superior expression drops from his face for a moment.

“Are you alright?” Christabelle asks at the same time that Sebastian questions, “What's wrong?” Wings looks up from her phone in concern.

Jim swallows, a muscle in his jaw tensing nervously. “A… late RSVP.”

“For what?” Sebastian asks dully.

“Christmas,” Jim says uneasily.

“For… our Christmas?” Sebastian asks. The only other person from his side he can imagine inviting is Severin, who is half way across the world serving, and he's pretty sure that Rinn doesn't make Jim nervous.

Jim sighs. “I invited her in a moment of sentimentality but I didn't expect her to actually come. She didn't say that she would. Until, you know, now.”

“There's more than enough food to go around,” Christabelle says.

Jim glances up and chuckles softly. “Well there's one saving grace.”

“So exactly who do we need saving from?” Sebastian presses.

Words do not come from Jim's open mouth for a moment, then he manages to blurt, “My sister.”

“Your… Kitten, when are you going to stop keeping secrets?” Sebastian protests. 

Jim purses his lips contemplatively. “I was going to tell you, but I didn't think she was coming.”

Sebastian crosses his muscular arms. “You know that's not what I mean.”

Jim rubs his face. “I know, I'm sorry, but can we postpone the telling off until later, please? She's going to be here soon.”

“How soon?” Christabelle asks.

Jim glances up uneasily. “She's in a cab from the airport.”

Sebastian checks the time. “Traffic as it is now, she's not going to get here until-”

The buzzer goes.

Jim sighs and stands reluctantly. “She has a habit of holding off announcing her arrival until she's almost arrived.”

“Well go let her in then,” Sebastian prompts.

Jim doesn't look like he wants to and trudges towards the door. Wings drops her attention back to incoming emails.

“You don't half keep me waiting,” Jim's sister scolds hypocritically, clipping into the apartment in expensive stilettos. 

Sebastian blinks. The woman exudes an air of confidence and menace similar to his own sister, but her bone structure does not merely match Jim's.

Jamie sashays calmly towards the couch, smiling politely at the others, and moves her gaze along to Wings. The composed woman stumbles in surprise.

Swallowing, Jim's sister straightens and inclines her head uneasily. “Hello, Scotty.” 

Wings drops Christabelle's phone and looks up in horror. “Hi, Mum.”

Christabelle covers her lips with her hand. She is unused to being startled by events. She exchanges a glance with Sebastian, who appears openly flummoxed.

Jamie inclines her head towards her brother. “This my present, is it?”

Jim splutters. “Don't blame me! I didn't know!”

Jamie arches a fine brow. “My estranged, Scottish daughter, who last I head was somewhere in the states killing people for a living, is on your couch, little brother, _and you didn't know_?”

Jim swallows and shakes his head. “She's more or less my sister in law...”

Jamie pinches the bridge of her nose. “Your niece. Is your sister in law?”

Wings presses her lips together. “I've been married since I was eighteen.” She gestures with a slightly shaking hand. “To Christabelle here. Who happens to be the sister of your brother's partner, Sebastian.” She moves her hand along.

Jamie tugs at her caramel coloured waves. “I don't believe this.”

“I can't believe you could share DNA with someone as warm as Jim,” Wings retorts.

The brunet blinks at his 'sister in law'. That is not a description many would associate with him.

Jamie seems to agree, arching her brow dryly. “Oh of course, your darling uncle Jim is nothing like me at all.”

“Well he doesn't loathe me, so he's definitely an improvement on you,” Wings points out.

Jamie purses her lips. “I don't 'loathe' you.”

“You dumped me in a care home,” Wings states coolly. “It's not like you were poor.”

Jim gives his sister a look that Sebastian cannot decipher. “You dumped her?”

Jamie heaves a painful sigh. “Look at her. You know exactly who her father is.”

“He'd have taken her in,” Jim argues.

“He'd have hated the bits of me in her far more than I can't stand the him in her,” Jamie snaps.

“He wouldn't have dumped her in care,” Jim states coldly.

“I tried, okay?” Jamie spits. “Why do you think she's got that ridiculous accent? I took her away from everything. I tried to do it, but I couldn't, alright?”

Jim steps closer. “If you were just across the border you could have spoken to me. I'd have helped.”

Jamie snorts. “What do you know about babies, Jimmy?”

“Enough to know that you don't dump them in places like that when she has a father who would have accepted her,” Jim growls.

“She's got my brains. He'd have never-”

“And she's got his too. They fight in that tiny skull of her's. Institutions don't have the capabilities to develop people like _us_ ,” Jim snaps.

Jamie's gaze flickers. “He couldn't have handled her either. And I… She's even got his damn birthmarks.”

Wings clears her throat. “None of this is relevant anymore.”

“How is it not relevant?” Jim retorts.

“I might be dressed like a kid, but I'm a grown woman. And have been for quite some time. I have zero need for parents or excuses,” Wings states.

“Well, glad that's settled,” Jamie says tightly, dropping down beside her daughter.

“It's not settled,” Jim grumbles. “Her father is nothing like our's.”

“He's an addict. And he had me arrested because he knew I'd care enough to see him in hospital. And...”

“And he's clean, in a stable job, and you shot him,” Jim counters.

“And my other daughter?”

Wings looks up quickly.

Jim states, “You took control of that situation. And Kayden's happy enough with her adoptive mother.”

“Josh isn't a fucking police detective,” Jamie retorts. “It's different.”

Jim curls his lip. “The only difference is that you didn't love Joshua and you love Sherl.”

Jamie pinches her nose again. “I can't have this conversation without alcohol. Where's your wine?”

Jim pauses, but nods and presses a quick kiss on his sister's temple before moving to the kitchen. “Anyone else want anything?”

“Popcorn?” Christabelle quips.

Wings snorts weakly and gives her friend an appreciative look.

Sebastian holds out his hand for a glass. “Normal families tend to have drama at Christmas, don't they?”

Jim blinks as he hands over red. He chuckles darkly. “Christ, is this what normal feels like?”

Jamie takes the bottle. “Welcome to the normal world, uncle Jim.”


End file.
